


I Won't Believe in Death 'Til I Die

by MoanDiary



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bloodlust, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Sex, F/M, First Time, Halloween, Lucifer is a snacc (literally), Post-Season/Series 04, Vampires, severe sunburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-11-26 05:04:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20924621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary
Summary: All told, things aren't all that different as a vampire, at least until Lucifer saunters back into her life. Now,finally, she gets the whole bloodlust thing.





	1. Chapter 1

In retrospect, she’s humble enough to admit she may have made some tactical errors. But in those days when the pain of Lucifer’s departure was still fresh, she would have done anything that felt like progress in the direction of getting him back, her own safety be damned.

So when Maze reluctantly gave her the name of a bar popular among the supernatural denizens of Los Angeles, Chloe wasn’t her customary cautious detective self. She put on her most badass leather jacket and her least sensible brown shoes and charged straight in. She should have realized that the hungry looks she was getting weren’t about sex, or at least not only about sex, given what she knew about the clientele. But it wasn’t until she was in a deserted alley, with the now clearly very non-human fangs of a woman who’d sworn up and down she knew about a back door into Hell buried in her neck, that she realized she’d royally fucked up.

* * *

* * *

All told, her life isn’t all that different as a vampire.

She tends to volunteer for more night shifts, swapped desks with Dan so she can sit in the shade of the stairs, and has to carry a parasol with her when she goes out, establishing her even more firmly as “_that_ detective.” But she works cases the same, takes care of Trixie the same. Has the same arguments with Dan. The same occasional tear-stained breakdowns after too many beers at Tribe Nights.

And, okay, _sure_, one time when she was still getting used to her supernatural strength, she _did_ accidentally break a suspect’s arms (both of them!) while wrestling him into handcuffs. And she’s found that interrogations go weirdly smoothly when she stares fixedly into a perp’s eyes and thinks about what she wants them to do really hard. And, _yes_, she does notice herself _smelling_ people a lot more.

One thing that’s a major relief given the expectations that movies and trashy novels had set is that the bloodlust really isn’t all that bad. She decides it’s a bit like walking past a bakery that’s just made fresh bread. The smell is amazing, and makes her mouth water and crave “bread” like nobody’s business, but it isn’t compelling enough to induce her to assault a random stranger, much less friends or family. 

Her Maker is named Janelle and helpfully left her number in Chloe’s phone while she was passed out from blood loss in the alley. They text occasionally but do not have a close relationship. Chloe thinks maybe Janelle cares a lot more about “bread” than her. She’s at least helpful in clarifying the rules of vampirism. 

Will the sun kill her? _Not instantly, but with long enough exposure, yes. _

What about a wooden stake to the heart? _Yep. _

Does she need to drink blood to live? _Not really, but it’s critical for healing. If, for example, she suffers some major sun exposure._

Will any blood do or just human blood? _Any blood works, but human tastes best._

Can she still eat normal food? _Yep._

Can she turn into a bat? Crawl up a wall? De-age herself like Gary Oldman in _Dracula_? _Hahahahaha._

So life goes on. That is, until Lucifer Morningstar strolls back into the precinct one day like he’d never left.

* * *

The first thing she hears is Dan growling “You’ve got some fucking nerve showing your face around here—”

She rolls her desk chair back to peek over at her former desk. The man Dan’s talking to has his back turned to her, but the drape of the elegant suit over broad shoulders and the perfectly coiffed black hair are unmistakable.

“And _you_ have some nerve sitting at the Detective’s desk like you own the place—” 

“Lucifer?” She whispers.

He spins on his heel and his face lights up like the sun when he sees her. “Detective!”

He’s striding towards her rapidly as she stands, but stops just short, seemingly uncertain how he’ll be received. The moment stretches as she takes in his dark eyes, shadowed by some unknowable pain, and his tight, hopeful smile. Then she launches herself at him, wrapping her arms around his chest and burying her face in his neck. His embrace is exactly as it always was; comforting and cherishing and protective. He feels like home. But he smells..._amazing_.

Not like a bakery at all. Like a fresh-buttered steaming slice of bread directly under her nose. No, better than that, like a chocolate factory. Like a warm torrent of salted caramel. Like holding a handful of fresh-roasted coffee beans under your nose. Like the sweet-tart burst of flavor in a lemon bar. Her mouth floods with saliva and she moans quietly, pressing her face closer to his neck and taking in a deep whiff. Now, _finally_, she gets the whole bloodlust thing. She forces herself to lean back, releasing a slow, trembling breath.

“Detective,” he repeats cautiously. “Are you quite well?” His hand is resting on the back of her neck and when she draws away he presses it against her forehead, checking her temperature. His forehead creases in concern at her cool skin.

“Well, uh, I have some news. Let’s talk somewhere private.” She grabs him by the wrist and drags him easily into an empty interrogation room.

“Detective, if you’d like to demonstrate how much you’ve missed me, you need only ask!” He laughs, delighted.

She slams the door behind them and when she turns back to him, the expression on her face is apparently grim enough to make the smile melt from his.

“Detective,” he begins quietly, his eyes cast down, clearly miserable. “I know nothing I can say could even begin to make up for the pain I’ve caused you. I had hoped that we could perhaps start afresh but if you have no desire to see me, I completely underst—”

“Lucifer, I’m a vampire,” she blurts.

He stares at her, uncomprehending and motionless, for what must be at least thirty seconds. She fidgets under his scrutiny. Are vampires and angels ancient enemies? Is she somehow evil or unclean to him now?

“You’re a _what_?”

“A, um, vampire? At least Janelle said that’s still the preferred term. It’s actually really not all that different, other than the tendency to sunburn. I think Trixie may have caught on but I’m pretty sure Dan hasn’t—”

He abruptly turns and sits at the table, putting his head in his hands, fingers carding upwards into his hair and turning it into a disheveled mess.

“_How_?” 

She tentatively sits across from him, putting one hand half-way across the table entreatingly. She wishes he’d look at her so she could tell what he’s thinking.

“I was trying to figure out a way to get you back, or help you, or—or _something_ and had a run-in with a vampire in the process. Again, it’s really not that big of a deal,” she finishes desperately.

Lucifer stiffens. “Get me back? You were condemned to an eternity of darkness for my sake?” His face twists in a bitter smile. “You know, I really thought I’d gotten that whole self-loathing problem figured out, but it turns out once again, joke's on me!” He’s shouting now, eyes flaming and cast resentfully heavenward. “Was this the plan all along, Dad? To do this to her? Damned if I do, damned if I _bloody_ don’t—”

“Lucifer!” She shouts, leaning across the table and grabbing his face to get his attention. The fire in his eyes dies and his expression softens, desolate as he gazes down at her. “It’s really not that bad. Basically just a skin condition. And on the bright side, I never get winded chasing down suspects anymore.” She smiles at him in a way that she hopes is reassuring, tears prickling at her eyes. She’s not sure what she’ll do if he rejects her now, after all this.

“Detective,” he starts, voice barely above a whisper. “I am so sorry this happened to you.”

She smiles tremulously. “No need to apologize. If you don’t want to be around me now, that’s okay. I get it. You’re an angel, I’m...well, you know. A monster.”

Lucifer sucks in a sudden breath, hands darting out to catch hers as she begins to draw them back. His grip is gentle but firm as iron.

“You are most certainly _not that_.”

She looks into his eyes. His jaw is clenched and determined, his gaze steady and unshakable. 

“And neither are you. Regardless of what kinds of trouble I get myself into.” She breathes in and out, steadying herself. “I love you.”

The words are like magic, instantly transforming his brooding into incredulous joy. _Open sesame_. She wishes she’d figured it out a long time ago, would’ve made a lot of difficult conversations much easier.

Now that the worst of the storm has passed, the awareness of his delicious scent returns with a vengeance. She licks her lips unconsciously.

* * *

The day’s revelations swirl around in Lucifer’s head. The Detective, a creature of the night. No longer capable of tanning. Bloodthirsty, superpowered. Immortal. The Detective is immortal. 

The Detective is immortal.

He gets caught on that over and over. He should be outraged that this fate has been visited upon her against her will. Should be desperate to punish the perpetrator, this “Janelle.” But after moving past his instinctive self-recrimination, all he can feel is joy. Looming like a dark cloud over each day since meeting the Detective has been the certain knowledge of her mortality. The undeniable truth that her beautiful soul is destined for The Silver City, the only place he cannot follow. But now...vampires _can_ die, certainly, but they don’t _have_ to. Age and decay will never touch her. She’ll stay radiant, if a bit pallid, forever. He could stay at her side forever.

He trails after her as she heads out on a case almost absently, lost in thought. She pulls on a long coat, gloves, sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed hat before leaving the precinct, although the sun is almost set. When they arrive at her car, she indicates the subtle tint on the windows and smiles proudly.

“UV-blocking film. Works like a charm.”

He smiles at her ingenuity, her positivity. He’d crossed paths with a few vampires over the years and had usually found them to be either totally insane shut-ins or constantly partying nymphomaniacs. Not that he frowned upon the latter, be he certainly never knew any to hold down a steady job. The Detective might be the only vampire in the world actively contributing to a 401(k). Leave it to her to break the mold.

“Well then, back on the job! Just like old times,” he says, rubbing his hands together as they pull out of the garage. “What are we investigating?”

Chloe gracefully ignores his slightly forced enthusiasm. “Emile Krueger. His business partner was found stabbed fourteen times two days ago. I got the sense from talking to the victim’s wife that she and Krueger were having an affair. Could be your standard crime of passion.”

They stop at a light and she casts him an appraising look, her eyes slowly trailing from his face down his chest, to his lap, then back up, coming to rest on his neck. He feels outright _devoured_ by her gaze in a way that’s deeply familiar, but not usually coming from her.

“Detective, has vampirism had some side effects? You’re not out there bleeding criminals dry now, are you? Fanged justice?” He teases.

She seems to suddenly realize she’s staring and shakes her head, turning to watch the car in front of them again. “Not yet, but annoying devils may cause me to reconsider my ‘no biting on the job’ policy.”

“You’ve had permission to bite me since we met, as far as I’m concerned.” He smiles winningly.

Chloe grins and rolls her eyes, but can’t seem to resist another quick glance at his neck before traffic starts to move again.

* * *

By the time they arrive at Emile Krueger’s residence, sunset is painting the city in alternating ribbons of orange light and deepening shadow. Chloe tilts her hat against the near-horizontal sunlight every time they turn. Lucifer watches her dreamily. Her new look is like if Carmen Sandiego decided to get really into leather jackets and floral blouses. He finds it oddly endearing. 

Krueger lives in one of L.A.’s rare high-rise apartment buildings, the kind of building that can be found across the country in gentrifying communities of all stripes. Each unit has floor-to-ceiling glass windows and a private balcony. On the ground floor is a dog groomer, a laundromat, and a Chipotle. Lucifer finds it tasteless and ugly and is certain that longtime residents of the neighborhood would agree.

They go through the door to the lobby on the heels of a woman with a Yorkshire terrier who’s staring fixedly at her phone as she walks and take the elevator up to the third floor. When they pause outside of apartment 314, there’s the sound of a man’s voice raised in angry one-sided conversation on the other side of the door, perhaps talking on the phone. He looks to Chloe to see if she can make out any of the conversation, but she just shakes her head. 

She raps on the door. “Emile Krueger? LAPD, open up. We’d like to ask you some questions.”

The voice inside abruptly stops are there are footsteps towards the door. The light coming through the peephole briefly dims, then the door is opening slightly, a wild-eyed man in his thirties peering out at them.

“Mr. Krueger? I’m Detective Decker, LAPD. May we come in?” Chloe displays her badge and tries to surreptitiously peer past him and into the apartment beyond.

Lucifer takes in his dilated pupils and the tremor in his limbs and understands instantly that this man is high out of his mind on some kind of drug. After working through a brief wave of envy, he presses one hand gently on the door, pushing it further open. Krueger pushes bodily back against it to no effect, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them.

“Mr. Krueger, when did you last speak to your partner, Aaron Walker?”

Krueger is now pushing with all his might against the door as Lucifer inexorably eases it open, the rug he’s standing on bunching as he slides backward.

“Can you tell us where you were on the night of October 3rd?” Chloe presses.

“N-no! I can’t! I won’t! Just leave me alone!” Krueger cries and springs backward, letting the door open with a bang and sprints back into his apartment.

They pursue, Chloe pulling her service weapon as they make their way into the dim mess of the apartment. All the blinds are closed except for the one in front of the balcony door. Krueger stands on the balcony, one leg swung over the railing, looking at them with wide, terrified eyes.

“Emile, wait! We can work this out! Look,” Chloe holds her hands up in surrender then slowly holsters her gun. “No matter what you did, it’s not worth this.”

“Listen to her, mate, she’s right,” Lucifer offers. “Your level of guilt, there’s nowhere to go but down, both literally and metaphorically.”

Krueger casts a desperate glance downward, then back up at them, and falls.

* * *

“No!” Chloe shouts, rushing out onto the balcony.

“They never listen,” Lucifer sighs.

Chloe peers over the railing, expecting to see Krueger dead or injured on the ground. They are only three flights up, after all. Instead, she sees his pale face staring up at her from the balcony directly beneath them, which sits slightly askew. Each subsequent balcony does, like steps in a staircase.

Seeing her, Krueger scrambles to drop to the next balcony down, and from there to the ground, stumbling slightly and taking off to the left.

“Damn it,” she hisses, and vaults over the railing, bypassing the other balconies and landing effortlessly below. There are some major benefits to vampirehood. Above her, she’s hears Lucifer call “Detective!” in distress, but when his head appears over the edge of the balcony and he sees her he looks almost sheepish.

“Ah yes, I’d forgotten for a moment.” He follows her lead and a moment later is standing on the sidewalk beside her, straightening his jacket. In classic L.A. fashion, the sidewalk is abandoned aside from them and no one in any of the passing cars seems to have noticed.

“You go that way,” Chloe gestures to the right and sprints off around the building to the left, the sound of Lucifer’s rapid footsteps fading away behind her. She’s _fast_ now, way faster than she has any right to be, and she revels in it. The wind whips past her face as her feet rapidly pound the concrete. She skids around the corner and finds—

Nothing. The alley is deserted. Krueger must’ve slipped away.

Then she hears the not-so-distant sound of shouting and a heavy metal bang, followed by the screech of a car peeling out. She sprints down the alley and around the next corner, leading to what was apparently the entrance to an underground parking lot. At the end of the alley she catches the tail lights of a red sedan as it turns out into traffic. Next to the garage door, Lucifer sits on the ground, nursing an injured hand.

“Little bastard nearly ran me over!” He grouses when he catches sight of her.

She jogs over to him and crouches to examine his hand, but immediately reels back and almost ends up flat on her ass in a puddle when the wave of _delicious_ scent hits her. If she thought he smelled good before, it’s _nothing_ compared to the smell of blood dripping down his arm from the scrape on his palm.

He looks at her curiously, eyes darting from her to his hand and back, making the connection.

“I thought you said the bloodlust wasn’t a big deal?”

“It wasn’t,” she grits out, taking his wrist in one hand and pulling out his pocket square with the other, shaking it open and pressing it to his palm to staunch the bleeding. “It isn’t. Not normally. Trixie cut her hand during knife practice with Maze yesterday and I patched her up without a problem. You’re—” She breathes in deeply. “—Something special.”

He smirks. “Well, I’ve always thought so. But now that I think of it, a few vampires of my past acquaintance have also commented that I have a particularly pleasant bouquet. None of them had the jaw strength to penetrate my skin, fortunately. Though some tried.”

Chloe freezes. “But I do. Because I make you vulnerable.”

He gives her a look that’s somehow self-deprecating and challenging all at once. She looks down at his hand, removing the handkerchief. The bleeding has stopped, and the scrape isn’t too bad, just messy. After a long moment, both of them holding their breath, she lifts his hand to her mouth and _licks_, tracing the dribble of blood near his cuff, scraping her teeth lightly against the pulse point at his wrist, and ending with a long, flat-tongued swipe across his palm.

Lucifer sucks in an unsteady breath.

Chloe lifts her head, eyes closed in absolute bliss. It’s like drinking starlight, like mainlining lightning. The taste flickers, electric, through her body in a wave of pure pleasure. She feels her nipples tighten and a rush of heat between her legs.

“Detective,” he whispers, awed, when she meets his eyes again.

She surges up and kisses him with a near-vicious desperation. She’s wanted to have sex with Lucifer for years, but never with this intensity. Never with this urgency. He catches her, cautious at first, startled into passivity. But when she thrusts her tongue between his lips he groans and crushes her against him, kissing with abandon. The sensation of his lips against hers is almost as good as the taste of his blood. He can work magic with his mouth. She hadn’t realized, couldn’t have realized from their past kisses, but of course. He likelier than not _invented_ kissing with tongue.

“Detective,” he pants, breaking away and leaning back when she tries to recapture his mouth. “I cannot overstate how much I want this, but I don’t think the pavement in a back alley, mere inches away from a puddle of what I can only describe as ‘dumpster juice’ is a venue either of us will enjoy.”

She looks at the puddle, considering for a moment, then nodding. “You’re probably right.”

They get to their feet, and Lucifer’s hands immediately return to her, one sliding around her waist and the other gently brushing a lock of hair away from her cheek. He doesn’t seem to want to stop touching her. “Where?” She asks.

“Your car has quite a spacious back seat, doesn’t it?”

* * *

They make it to her car in a slow, stumbling fashion, each of them taking turns distracting the other from the simple task of walking with increasingly heated kisses.

Luckily the sun has finally set, because Chloe’s coat and shirt are pushed off her shoulders in service of the very important task Lucifer sets for himself of placing open-mouthed kisses in a neat row from one shoulder to the other, trailing up her neck and across her face along the way.

Meanwhile, Chloe has managed to undo all the buttons on his shirt and her cool hands are busy mapping every inch of his torso, fingernails raking against him in a way that makes him shudder. She carries the chill of the night air in her bones now and Lucifer’s skin burns all the hotter for it.

Her car is parked at the mouth of the alley, in the deepening shade of the building. Not exactly concealed, but Lucifer’s certainly had sex in more public places. The Detective yanks open the back door with a violence that makes the hinges squeal in protest and shoves Lucifer in, pausing for only a moment to find the lever on the side of the passenger seat and slide it forward as far as it will go in a much-appreciated concession to his legs before she climbs in after him.

And then she’s on him. Lucifer has never felt so much like a fluffy bunny in his life. She’s one of Creation’s most dangerous predators, and she’s _voracious_. Chloe moves him where she wants him, and he doesn’t just follow because he wishes to (and, oh, how he does), but also because resisting would mean an actual strength contest, and Lucifer isn’t _100% certain_ he’d win.

She shucks off her boots and jeans and attacks the fly on his trousers, opening them just enough to free his erection. She leans back for a moment to admire him. And for a flash, she’s the old Chloe again, adorably embarrassed by her own arousal, but unwilling or unable to turn away from it. She touches him hesitantly and he hisses and presses into her hand. He’s painfully hard. Untold decades of abstinence in Hell have likely left his stamina in shambles, and now the Detective, his Platonic Ideal of Sexiness, is stroking him with increasing confidence.

After a few moments of this pleasant torture, he catches hold of her wrist, arresting the movement of her hand.

“Any more of that, and this may be over before it begins,” he murmurs, breathless.

Chloe — Dad help him — smirks. Her eyeteeth have gotten considerably more fangy in the past ten minutes and damned if it doesn’t do it for him. She straddles him, positioning him with one hand and sinking down onto him. He moans gutturally, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her buttocks. She sets a slow, grinding rhythm and he thrusts shallowly up into her in counterpoint. She moans and noses against his ear.

“You feel so good,” she moans. “You _smell_ so good.”

Her lethal mouth draws near his neck, and the familiar drumbeat in the back of his head that chants “THIS WOMAN CAN HURT YOU” whenever she’s near, urged on by some long-buried and half-formed survival instinct that Dad put there for who knows what reason, crescendos into “THIS WOMAN _WILL_ HURT YOU.” His heart beats wildly and _she can hear it_, smell it, see it in the fluttering of his jugular against his skin. Her desire, normally so opaque to him, sits plainly on her face, in the blue-green of her eyes turned almost black with arousal, in her moist and softly parted lips, and he’s drunk on it. He tilts his head back, baring his throat: an offering. In this moment he wants more than anything for her to embrace her desire, to penetrate him, consume him.

For a heavy moment that seems to stretch on for years, he thinks she’ll do it, her lips grazing feather-soft against the skin of his neck — but then with a jerky movement she pulls back and forces her eyes to rest on his shoulder, swallowing several times convulsively, bracing her hands on the seat back behind him. She misses the disappointment that flickers across Lucifer’s face.

She lifts her hips further and sets a rhythm that’s abruptly punishing, apparently determined to chase satisfaction this way instead. Lucifer responds in kind, eager to give her anything she wishes to take, suckling at her nipples and bringing his thumb to bear against her clit. Chloe comes with a shudder and a gasp, her whole body arching backwards, burying her fingers in his hair and clasping his head to her breast.

She grinds against him restlessly as the wave of bliss recedes, mewling as she chases the aftershocks. Lucifer watches her in awe. How many times has he imagined this exact sight? Nothing compares to the reality of it. Her pleasure is indescribably beautiful; it makes his heart ache and thump irregularly, and he knows with sudden conviction that he’ll do anything to see it again.

“Do you want to come again, darling?” He whispers, breath fanning across her neck. She bites her lip and nods swiftly, eyes still closed as she swivels languorously in his lap.

He lifts her off of him and maneuvers her onto her hands and knees with an expertise borne of extensive trial and error with the logistics of car sex, kneeling behind her and curling over her body, greedily pressing as much of him against her as possible. He slips back into her easily, angling to press inside her just so, one arm looped under her ribcage to hold her against him and the other braced against the doorframe.

He begins to thrust, drawing on every trick in the book, desperate to make her feel as good as he does. He slides the hand resting around her waist downward and caresses her where they’re joined. Swivels and grinds against her g-spot. Sucks and bites at her shoulders and neck.

“Harder,” she gasps.

He obliges, his hips snapping into her firmly, as hard as he ever does with a human woman. She pushes up against him in time with his movements and he realizes with a start that he’s not really resting any weight on the arm braced against the door, she’s easily supporting both of them. He quickly recognizes this for the blessing it is and reassigns that hand to massaging her lovely breasts.

She moans and shifts their combined weight onto one arm, lacing the fingers of the other with the hand he has on her breast.

“Please, harder,” she repeats.

He huffs in disbelief but obeys, bringing his full strength to bear. She cries in what sounds like relief and returns both of her hands to the doorframe. Any thought Lucifer had for finesse flies out the window and he wraps his arms around her in a python’s grip, driving into her desperately.

He thinks—hopes—she made it to that second orgasm he promised her because his is abruptly upon him, blindingly powerful. A strangled groan escapes him and he stills against her.

They slump sideways onto the seat in a boneless tangle of limbs. 

The thought crosses Lucifer’s mind, as he’s absently pressing his lips against her cheek and neck in the afterglow, that she was made for him. And for once, it doesn’t fill him with resentment or rage. He can’t regret this, no matter how much an angry voice in the back of his head tells him he should.

* * *

Chloe stares at the back of the driver’s seat, eyes wide, as Lucifer, pressed against her back, caresses her and whispers sweet nothings in her ear. She’d thought that the terrible, all-consuming hunger would abate after she got this out of her system. That the memory of the taste of his blood would fade in comparison to multiple Lucifer-grade orgasms. She was wrong.

It’s just gotten much, _much_ worse.


	2. Chapter 2

Chloe drops Lucifer off at Lux, forcing a smile as she waves off his offer to come upstairs, vaguely alluding to needing to watch Trixie. He accepts her excuse without question, but he doesn’t bother to hide his disappointment. He spent most of the ride home holding her hand and gazing at her with a dopey smile plastered across his face, and she had to use every bit of acting training she could muster to keep the panic and hunger off of hers.

Her car absolutely _reeks_ of him. After he disappears into his club she can finally turn around and survey with a mixture of dismay and longing the mess they made of the back seat. She wonders if getting her car fully detailed will rid it of his mouthwatering smell. She plucks at the collar of her shirt and with a sniff realizes it’s not just her car, it’s _her_. She reeks of him, too. She is swept up in the desperate urge to run in after him, take the elevator to his penthouse, and _just tear into him_. To pin him down and fuck him senseless and rip into his delicious flesh and drink until she’s sated.

All her anxieties about the _creature_ she is now crash upon her like a wave. She’d thought she had it under control, that it was just one more challenge. She couldn’t have been more wrong. How can she work through this when her body is betraying her? When there’s this primal, violent urge screaming at her to take what she wants at any cost?

She closes her eyes and presses her head into the headrest, breathing in and out deliberately. She will not kill Lucifer. She _will not_ kill Lucifer.

Under the horror, the hunger, the desperation, what they just did...it was beautiful. Delightful. Everything he’d ever promised her and more. And though he’s never said it outright, she knows he loves her as much as she loves him. How could she in good conscience put him in danger again, especially if that danger is her? Especially after what he suffered to protect her? 

The thing that terrifies her the most is that she honestly doesn’t know if this will get any better, if she’ll get used to him over time and be able to function in his presence again. She’s not ready to lose him again, not after she just got him back. The prospect of an immortal life without him is terrible to consider, but even worse is the idea of killing him and living with that guilt for even a single minute.

Eventually the desire to protect him wins out over her terrible hunger. She pulls out into the evening traffic.

* * *

On the way home she puts out an APB on Emile’s red sedan. She chooses not to mention anything about the delay between when they arrived at his apartment and when she calls it in. She chooses to do anything she can to avoid thinking about Lucifer buried to the hilt inside her, cleaving to her like a second skin, groaning out his pleasure in her ear.

Trixie is not, in actual fact, waiting at home. She’s sleeping over at a friend’s house for a birthday party. But Maze—for some reason (Chloe thought she had moved out)—is posted up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn, watching one of her mother’s schlockiest movies, _The Vampire Queen_, of all things.

She pauses it when Chloe slams the door shut behind her.

“Decker! Congratulations! I just got Lucifer’s text,” Maze sits up on her knees and turns around to grin salaciously at Chloe.

“What text?”

“The one he sent to me, Linda, Ella, and Amenadiel celebrating you two finally boning. Amazing. I didn’t even know he was back on Earth! You really didn’t waste any time.”

She shows her phone screen to Chloe. The mish-mash of emoji and exclamation marks is indecipherable to her, but if anyone could understand it, it’s Maze. Chloe flushes with a mix of embarrassment and pleasure. _God, she loves that idiot_. She just wishes she could know with certainty that the painful longing to be near him isn’t just the vampirism talking.

“Maze,” she begins tentatively, settling onto the couch next to her sometime roommate. “You know I’m a vampire, right?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Maze replies, tossing a kernel of popcorn into her mouth and starting the movie again.

“Well...do you think there’s a reason why I’d want to drink Lucifer’s blood, in particular? Like, more than anyone else’s?”

With an annoyed sigh, Maze pauses the movie again. “Is this going to be a feelings conversation?”

“Maybe?”

“Ugh, okay.” She turns to face Chloe fully. “There’s a perfectly good reason you’d want to drink Lucifer’s blood more than a human’s. Vampires like human blood because it contains little traces of divinity from your soul. Pure, undying life. The same thing that allows souls to live for all eternity in Heaven or Hell, blah, blah, blah. That’s why I guarantee you’re not interested in eating me, right? No soul.”

Chloe sniffs her and quickly realizes she’s right. Aside from the faint scent of her body wash and a hint of expensive custom perfume, Maze is almost totally odorless.

“But Lucifer, on the other hand,” Maze continues. “Lucifer is pure divinity. He was created by the hand of God Himself. He essentially _is_ the light of Creation. So naturally he’s gonna smell and taste better than your average joe.”

Chloe puts her head in her hands. “So you’re saying Lucifer is basically pure, uncut vampire cocaine?”

Maze shrugs and frowns as if to say _close enough_.

Tears that have been threatening since she dropped Lucifer off finally spill over onto her cheeks. “How can I even be near him, then? If I can’t stop myself from hurting him? It’s not fair!”

Maze laughs. “Decker, take my word for it; Lucifer has no problem with being hurt.”

“Maze, I could _kill_ him,” Chloe hisses, scandalized.

“Wow, you really are full of yourself. He’s the devil, Chlo. You’re, what? Some brand new baby vampire? You might be stronger now than you used to be, but Lucifer could snap you in half with one hand tied behind his back. And besides, if you wanted a pint or two of his blood from time to time, he’d be more than willing to donate.”

Chloe shakes her head, irresolute. “You don’t get it; you don’t understand what it’s like. The way I want it...it overshadows _everything_. I forget about who he is, who _I_ am. I’m not,” she swallows with difficulty. “I’m not in control.”

Maze rolls her eyes and shrugs, returning her attention to the TV. “Suit yourself. If you want to give yourself blue balls, that’s your problem.”

* * *

Lucifer has never felt like this before. 

Okay, maybe once, for a paltry few hours before his mother let the truth about Chloe’s conception crash onto his head like a cartoon anvil.

His love is requited and real. There is no sacrifice to be made, no terrible parting in the offing. Chloe is his, _forever_, and he is hers. 

As he bounces into the penthouse, he can’t restrain a whoop of joy, spinning his jacket by the collar around one finger and letting it fly heedlessly into the depths of his living room. He pours a celebratory glass of his most expensive scotch and sits down at the piano. He plays a dozen bars of “Moonlight Sonata” before deciding it’s too melancholy and switching to “Party in the U.S.A.”

His mind races with all the things he wants to do with her. Do _to_ her. They still have never managed the successful completion of a single date, but he has to believe that with careful persistence and planning, they can finally make it happen. First things first, he’s going to institute a strict “no mobile phones” policy. 

He orders three dozen roses and a box of particularly decadent gourmet chocolates to be delivered to her desk tomorrow morning, in case she gets into work before he’s there to express his gratitude personally. While writing a message for the card, he gets distracted remembering the taste of her lips, the smell of her hair, the feeling of her clenching around him, the sound of her pleasure—and is briefly overwhelmed. Certainly she wouldn’t protest much if he tap-tap-tapped on her bedroom window well after the urchin’s bed time?

No, she definitely would. The Detective is all about boundaries and communication and all that nonsense. Instead, he takes out his phone and texts her: _Thinking about you. Mind very much if I come over in a few?_

A few moments later, he sees she’s read it.

He puts his phone down on the lid of the piano and watches it fixedly, waiting for it to light up with her reply. She’s usually very prompt. The minutes stretch on and it stays dark.

_Perhaps she’s putting the urchin to bed_, he reasons. _Or maybe she’s watching television and wants to wait for an episode to end._

The minutes stretch into an hour. He drains and refills his glass several times, an unnamed dread beginning to darken the edges of his thoughts.

An hour turns to two, then three. When midnight strikes, he decides she’s probably gone to bed. Maybe her phone’s battery died. Or she shattered the screen on the ground. Or dropped it in the toilet. Any number of things could account for such utter _silence_.

Any number of things.

He picks up his phone again and fires off a text to Linda.

_Need appt first thing tomorrow pls_

* * *

“Lucifer, welcome back! And congratulations! ” Linda beams as he stalks into her office, but her smile abruptly fades when she sees the expression on his face, “Or...not congratulations?”

“Doctor, I need your opinion as a woman,” Lucifer begins gravely, settling on the couch and pouring himself a glass of water. “Is doggy style too impersonal for a first time? Or, more specifically, a second round of a first time?”

Linda blinks at him. She opens her mouth, then closes it. Lucifer looks at her with earnest intensity.

“Why don’t we start at the beginning?”

Lucifer recounts everything that happened since his arrival, from the revelation of Chloe’s vampirism, to chasing the impertinent Mr. Krueger, to his injury, their tryst in the car, and their parting at Lux.

Linda listens, in turns proud at his emotional openness and maturity and flabbergasted by revelations about the existence of yet another creature she’d long ago relegated to the lands of genre fiction.

After he finishes his story, they sit in silence for several long moments while Linda considers.

“So how did you feel after she licked the blood off your hand?” LInda asks.

“Bloody turned on, obviously,” Lucifer laughs, leaning back.

“And how do you think she felt?”

Lucifer shrugs. “I suppose turned on as well. She did kiss me after, and then, well, you know the rest.”

“But when she had the opportunity to bite you, she chose not to.”

Lucifer’s brow furrows. “I don’t follow.”

Linda changes tack. “How did you feel when you thought your relationship with Chloe was something your Father manipulated both of you into? Something your presence was doing _to_ her rather than something she chose for herself?”

“Hurt. Resentful. Determined to give her back her free will.” He swallows. “Terrified, mostly of the fact that I didn’t know whether or not I had the strength to stay away from her.”

“Have you thought that Chloe might feel similarly about her hunger for your blood? About the fact that she may not be able to stop herself from hurting you?” Linda asks gently.

“Well, that’s nonsense, Doctor!” He scoffs with a dismissive wave. “A little bite and a bit of blood is nothing.”

“And what if you felt compelled by some force beyond your control to do harm to Chloe? How would you feel about that?”

Lucifer blanches and doesn’t reply, clearly troubled by the idea.

“So—” He clears his throat, wringing his hands anxiously. “So how do I proceed?”

“You have to help her understand how you feel, and she needs to feel in control of her own impulses.”

Lucifer’s nodding enthusiastically in that way that never bodes well. “Yes, I see, Doctor. I need to tempt her into biting me, so she can see that it won’t hurt me any more than I wish, and that she can stop herself before inflicting any lasting harm.”

He stands from the couch, straightening his jacket and beaming at her. “Another pearl of wisdom, Doctor! Thank you!”

And before she can get another syllable out, the door is slamming behind him.

Linda winces, weighing the possible implications, then sighs. “Ah, I’m sure they can figure this one out.”

* * *

Chloe is still attempting to figure out how to wrangle her computer mouse and keyboard and multiple case files without knocking over any of the three vases of roses on her desk when Lucifer strolls in mid-morning. Their presence, along with that of the massive box of expensive chocolates and saucy note, makes guilt roil in her stomach. 

She spent most of the night reading his text over and over, barely restraining herself from replying “YES COME OVER NOW.” She knows he was probably hurt by her silence. She thinks about how she felt when he stood her up for the first of their many disastrous dates. It pains her to do that to him, but it’s for the best. She can’t let this go any further, for his sake.

He’s in a burgundy three-piece suit that brings to mind the red of the roses and the deep color of arterial blood. His black silk shirt has two buttons open rather than his customary one and rather than the high, stiff collars he tends to favor, this one folds softly away from his neck, framing it picturesquely. 

His hair looks just slightly disheveled and his stubble the tiniest bit overlong, both in a way she only notices because of how impeccable his usual standard is. Almost like he forewent his normal morning grooming routine. The intense odor of the roses—blessedly—goes a long way towards masking his own aroma. Her hunger spikes regardless. Chloe strategically slides one of the vases between them as he comes to a stop at her desk.

“Good morning, Lucifer.”

“Good morning, Detective! Ah, I see you got my gift. But let’s spread the love, shall we?” He picks up the vase she just moved and one of the others and strides away, depositing one on Dan’s desk and the other in Ella’s lab.

He is detained in the lab for several minutes as Ella thanks him for the roses and chatters excitedly about, Chloe presumes, the contents of Lucifer’s celebratory text. Chloe takes the opportunity to steel herself and move her remaining defensive vase of roses into a strategic position at the edge of her desk, between her and where Lucifer normally sits.

Eventually, Lucifer meanders back. “Dearie me, it’s hot in here today, isn’t it?” He says, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over the back of his chair, tugging at his collar so it falls open even further.

Chloe makes a noncommittal noise, her eyes fixing on the elegant line of his throat.

He plops down in the chair and settles for a moment before noticing the bouquet between them completely blocks his line of sight to her. Chloe slouches down, pretending to be engrossed in the contents of her computer screen. He cranes his neck to try to look over the flowers, leans to the right and the left to try to look around. 

“Well, this certainly won’t do,” he mutters, and rolls his chair around the corner of the desk so he’s sitting immediately next to her.

His scent rolling over her is so powerful she can almost see it, like a cloud of billowing smoke. She can now say with complete certainty that his slight dishevelment is due to him not having showered today, and he’s forgone his usual cologne, leaving nothing but intense _him-ness_. He leans in close under the pretext of scanning the case file open on the desk before her. She bites back a moan and curls her fingers around the arms of her desk chair in a death grip.

_Why is he doing this? Is he _trying_ to torture me?_

She clears her throat. “I put an APB out on Krueger’s car last night. It was found around 4 AM, abandoned in a lot in Long Beach where the Marino family often dumps stolen vehicles.”

“Ooh, the mafia!” Lucifer exclaims. “This case just got much more fun. So what do we think squirrelly Emile was tangled up in?” He presses close to her, so close she can feel the body heat radiating off of him. She edges precious inches away, trying to buy herself enough room to think.

“The business he owned together with our vic provided supply chain management services, namely coordinating trans-Pacific shipping. I think maybe he was moonlighting doing some work for the mob. See, looking through their company’s books, there are several shipments that just...disappear. They leave Shanghai and never arrive. And not only that, but these shipments leave port, without fail, on the first Monday of the month—they’re not random. So I’m thinking maybe his partner found out, threatened to go to the police, they argued, and maybe either Emile or one of his mafia partners decided to take matters into their own hands.”

Lucifer leans back to look her in the eye, a proud smile on his face. “A very credible theory, Detective!”

Chloe meets his gaze and grins, pleased, and then immediately regrets it. Because looking at him? Looking at him is bad because looking at him means thinking about kissing him, and thinking about kissing him means thinking about last night in her car, and thinking about her car means thinking about the way he looked with his throat bared submissively, his eyes hooded with desire.

She swallows and turns her attention back to her computer, bringing up the report on the recovered car. Meanwhile, Lucifer flips through the case file. He catches her attention again with a sudden hiss, accompanied immediately by a now-familiar, irresistible aroma.

“Ouch, paper cut,” Lucifer murmurs, turning up his finger to show her the perfect bead of blood welling up from his fingertip, his voice lowering into its most seductive register. “Kiss it better?” 

And she’s leaning forward, her body moving without her permission, her fangs descending, only inches away—

She musters her last scrap of self-control and kicks at the floor, rolling her chair backwards and away from the delicious, man-shaped font of temptation and then leaping to her feet.

“No,” she says shakily. “That’s not okay. That—this—this is work. You can’t just—offer yourself, like a—a sandwich!”

She looks around and realizes people are staring. 

Lucifer looks lost, and more hurt than she would have expected. “Apologies, Detective. I thought I might...that I could show you that I don’t mind—”

“Lucifer, whatever you’re trying to prove, just don’t. Please.” She shuts her eyes against frustrated tears. “I didn’t want to lose you as my partner. I thought maybe we’d be able to still work together, but I just can’t if you’re going to be like this.”

“Detective—”

“Lucifer, I need you to go.” She says. Her tone brooks no argument.

He stands slowly from his chair and walks woodenly towards the exit. Ella tries to intercept him at the foot of the stairs but he wards off her comforting hug and trudges out of sight, his head hanging low. Gradually, activity in the precinct resumes. No one seems willing to meet Chloe’s eyes.

She rolls her chair back over to her desk and sits heavily. He’s left his jacket draped over the back of his chair, and his scent lingers like a ghost. She swallows her guilt and turns her focus back to the case.

* * *

Lucifer’s heart feels like a cold stone sitting in his chest. He’s an idiot to have thought, however briefly, that they had a chance at happiness. It’s never been in the cards for them. He wonders if they’ll spend the rest of their separate eternities circling each other, never meeting, their lives an endless series of misunderstandings and near misses.

When he arrives home, he unstoppers a decanter blindly and drinks deep. The sweet burn drowns out the ache behind his ribcage.

He repeats the process a few times and ends up stretched out face down on the couch. He dozes morosely for a few hours, only to be awakened some time later by the chime of a text message. He fumbles for his phone, disappointed when he finds the message is from Ella.

_Chlo went out to a mob warehouse to try to find Krueger. Did she text you?_

_No_, he types back.

_It’s super dangerous. Shouldn’t be there alone_

_Where?_

She sends him the address, and he disappears with a whisper of feathers.

* * *

The warehouse is deep in the Marino family’s territory. It’s a little bit of a shot in the dark, to be honest. It’s near where Krueger’s car was dumped, though, and according to vice there’s been a lot of activity there recently. And after this morning, after all the sidelong looks her coworkers have been giving her since she sent Lucifer home, Chloe really could use a win.

There is one expensive car parked outside, and three cheap ones. She radios for backup but then, on impulse, draws her gun and creeps in the entrance of the warehouse. Raised voices echo through the large space, filled with aisle after aisle of stacked shipping containers. It’s nearly pitch black in here other than emergency lighting and a glow from the back of the building. She stalks towards it, the voices gradually growing clearer.

“This fucker and his snitch partner put us at risk, Boss. He knows too much. We gotta put an end to it.”

“Now, now, Joey. We know his partner was a snitch but Emile here is faithful to the bone. Isn’t that right, Emile?”

“Y-yes, Mr. Marino,” Krueger whimpers. “I’d never betray you. Never!”

“Then why did I hear the cops were over at your place yesterday sniffing around?”

“I didn’t tell them anything! I ran! I swear to God!”

“You think I’d believe a junkie piece of shit like you?”

There’s the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking. Chloe bursts from behind a shipping container into the circle of light cast by a powerful standing halogen lamp. Krueger is duct taped to a chair with the light shining directly into his eyes. A large man in a cheap suit holds a gun to his head, while another who Chloe recognizes as Michael Marino, head of the Marino crime family, looks on. Three other henchmen in ill-fitting suits stand at the edge of the pool of light.

“LAPD, put your hands in the air!”

All six of them turn to her in surprise.

“Well, hello, Little Miss Cop,” Marino laughs coldly, staring at her with the deadly stillness of a reptile. “What is this, a big sting operation? You’re all the LAPD could afford to send? City budget must really be tight these days.”

“Oh no,” Chloe smirks, edging towards them. “They wanted to send in the cavalry at first but then they decided to bring out the big guns instead. You’re looking at L.A.’s one and only vampire cop.”

She bares her teeth in a fanged snarl and the men reel back. The one who was holding the gun to Krueger’s head swings his arm towards her and shoots blindly. The bullet goes through Chloe’s side. The impact makes her drop her own gun in surprise, but it doesn’t slow her down in the slightest. She sprints towards him with inhuman speed and yanks the gun from his hand, clocking him in the temple with it. He and the gun both fall to the ground, out cold.

She pauses to glance down at the bullet wound in her side. It stings and bleeds freely but she somehow knows for certain it can’t kill her. She’s turning to face the other henchmen when something heavy strikes the side of her head. Marino, behind her, is wielding a heavy steel pole. Dazed, she stumbles towards him and they grapple for the pole. He shoves her towards the back wall of the warehouse. Chloe gets an arm around his neck and attempts to choke him out as her vision clears and her balance is restored.

He’s gasping and just starting to go limp when she feels the other henchmen grab her, finally overcoming their apparent terror, two trying to pull her away from him from behind and the other attempting to pry her arm away from their boss’s neck. The four of them reel and stumble, and in one last desperate attempt to break free, Chloe tries to slam the two behind her against the wall.

What she didn’t bargain for was the wall not being a wall, but instead an emergency exit. The four of them burst through it and the searing mid-afternoon sunlight hits Chloe’s skin like acid. She shrieks and releases Marino, stumbling away. One of the henchman is quick to recover from his astonishment this time, pulling out his gun and shooting her twice in the chest. The impact knocks her to the ground, sending her hat rolling away and leaving her to roast on the hot pavement.

* * *

Lucifer lands on the cracked and weed-strewn asphalt in front of the mob warehouse. The Detective’s car is parked a few yards away from four others, one of which is ostentatious enough to be worthy of the head of a mafia family. All of them are empty. He curses under his breath and strides rapidly towards the entrance. His hand is on the door when he hears two clear gunshots, outside, from somewhere around the right side of the building.

He breaks into a sprint, heart pounding with anxiety, and rounds the corner of the warehouse.

Chloe is lying on the ground, screaming. In the pitiless California sun. He can see wisps of steam rising from her skin as she burns. Four men in suits watch, perplexed, but make no move to help as she writhes and screams. 

Lucifer sees red.

* * *

Through her pain, Chloe can’t perceive much more than a red and black blur as the King of Hell visits righteous punishment upon the men who hurt her. There are screams, the crunch of breaking bones, the sickening wet thump of fists colliding with bloody flesh.

And then silence. 

And then he’s there, looming over her, the orange fire in his eyes banked in concern. He shades her with his body, fingers hovering over her scorched and peeling skin, careful not to touch. She weakly lifts her arm to indicate the twisted red flesh of his face.

“Hey, look,” she croaks. “We match.”

“Chloe, please,” he says, skin fading back to its normal freckled tan, eyes cooling to brown. He unhooks one cufflink with trembling fingers and shoves up his sleeve, offering his wrist to her. “You have to drink.”

The pain is terrible, and she knows he’s offering her sweet relief. She shakes her head minutely.

“I can’t,” she rasps.

“You—you stubborn _bloody_ fool of a woman,” he bites out, voice wavering. “You won’t even take a chance to save your own life? And how do you think that will make me feel, eh? You suffering, dying, when I could have saved you? Far worse than a little bite, I guaran-_fucking_-tee you.” He laughs bitterly.

“What if I can’t stop?” Chloe’s voice is uncharacteristically small. “What if by the time you realize what’s happening you’re too weak to stop me? What if the bloodlust takes over and I can’t tell when I’ve taken too much?”

Lucifer stares her dead in the eyes, willing her to believe him with all his might. “I trust you. More than I’ve ever trusted anyone or anything on Earth, in Heaven, or in Hell. And what I trust most of all is the force of your will. When you get it in your head to do something, Dad help anyone who dares stand in your way. So believe me when I tell you that I know you could never harm me if you don’t wish to.”

Chloe swallows, trying to reckon with the enormity of that statement. Then, she nods.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Her fangs spring to the fore as his wrist draws near, pulsing with life. Her charred lips open wide and she bites.

The burst of sensation in her mouth is sublime, more intense and alive than the blood from his scrape. Somehow both every exquisite taste and like nothing else in the world at the same time. Fig and caviar and foie gras, but also the flavor of forgiveness and longing and desire. She’s drinking living divinity, the power that willed the universe into existence. It flows into her, molten, instantly healing and restoring and invigorating, spreading outward like a cooling balm, closing her wounds, shoving out bullets, plumping her flesh with youth and vitality. 

She takes another gulp and her pallid skin warms from within. Pleasure surges into her extremities and then ripples back inwards in a trembling wave. She feels her whole body flex and arch with it, rapturous. And then...she’s sated. She relaxes back onto the ground, his blood humming a low, celestial melody as it settles into her veins. She could drink more, but she doesn’t want to. She withdraws her teeth and gives his wrist a final, soothing lick before releasing it.

Lucifer’s eyes are closed, his face lax in an expression of abject pleasure. He places his hand back on the ground beside her head, breathing heavily. “Ohhh, Detective, now there’s a sensation I’ve not felt before.” He looks down at himself curiously. “Do you know, I think I may have come.”

A bark of laughter escapes Chloe. Then another. And then he’s chuckling too and they’re both laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Chloe cranes her neck backwards, surveying the scene. Lucifer has..._thoroughly_ incapacitated the mobsters, who are all either groaning on the ground or unconscious. Chloe’s hat lies a few feet away from where she fell.

“Can you grab me my hat?”

* * *

Police swarm over the scene, documenting and tidying and simplifying the facts into something that makes at least marginal sense on paper. Chloe and Lucifer give their statements and then stand side-by-side in the shade of the warehouse, watching.

“Well, Detective, a humble murder investigation ends in the arrest of a notorious crime boss. Not bad for a Thursday, eh?” Lucifer smiles slyly at her.

Chloe grins back at him. “I may have had a little help.”

“Well, a word of advice — next time you plan to have a brawl with five large, heavily armed mobsters, try to do it at night.”

Chloe rolls her eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind. You wanna get dinner?”

Lucifer grins lasciviously, running his tongue along the back of his teeth. “You’re hungry again already?”

She doesn’t respond, but runs her eyes down up and down his figure appraisingly. He offers his arm and she takes it, and together they stroll along the lengthening afternoon shadows back to her car.

Distantly, she hears Ella whoop and yell “Get it, Decker!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I lied when I said there would only be two chapters. I'm planning write a bonus chapter with some, ahem, more vampire action. Stay tuned.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s a responsible, schoolmarm-esque streak in Chloe that’s intent on ruining both her fun and the fun of those around her. Lucifer assumes it’s this eternal adversary that prompts her to suggest they—horror of horrors—”take it slow.” She reasons that given how abruptly they traveled from the sleepy hamlet of Chastityville to the wild and gritty city streets of Pound Town (not her exact words, but Lucifer doesn’t mind a bit of editorializing), they should take some time to ease into their new relationship. So just dating, holding hands, kissing, and nothing more until they both agree to it. 

”Maybe some light over-the-clothes fondling?” Lucifer asks hopefully. Chloe stammers and hedges, which he takes to mean “Yes.”

She doesn’t say this aloud, but Lucifer also senses she wants to continue testing her willpower and make doubly certain she can restrain her vampiric instincts when she needs to. And so, Lucifer agrees. That doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it, though.

At least he can console himself with the fact that she’s clearly just as miserable as he is. The effects of his blood lasted a couple of days, manifesting in a lingering rosy flush in her cheeks and the ability to look at him for longer than a few seconds without licking her lips, but eventually it fades and she’s forced to fall back on the aid of what Lucifer quickly realizes is a fairly regimented masturbation schedule.

He tracks it with relative ease, now that he’s seen what post-orgasmic glow looks like on her. Presumably once in the shower before work, then once around midday (usually a couple hours after he arrives at the precinct), then the mid-afternoon wank, assuming they’re not out at a crime scene. If they have plans for the evening, she fits in another one immediately before, and what she does in bed before she falls asleep he can only imagine. _And oh, does he._

One day he tries to do it in sync with her, and finds it both effective and counterproductive. While it deals with the physical frustration of being near her so much of the day, spending that much time fantasizing about her just makes his thoughts even more one-track than they already are. Not to mention that wanking in the heavily-trafficked men’s restroom in the precinct is far from ideal in terms of ambience. 

For inspiration, though, he can’t beat the image of her mere inches away on the other side of the stained tile, thinking about him.

* * *

Chloe plans what turns out to be their first successful date. 

She books a reservation at a brand new restaurant just opened by a Catalonian chef with two Michelin stars, so new that not even Lucifer has tried it yet. Unbeknownst to him, she has to use his name with the maître d' to obtain said reservation. Per usual, it’s immediately effective and when they arrive they’re ushered to an intimate table tucked away in a quiet alcove.

They enjoy an exquisite 16-course tasting menu, although if you asked her later, Chloe couldn’t have named a single thing she ate, because she spends the entire dinner fantasizing about eating her date, who is dressed to the nines and looking downright scrumptious. She also pulls out all the stops, wearing a blood-red sheath dress with a back low enough that both bras and most of the pairs of underwear she owns are no-gos. He seems similarly distracted and keeps trying to share little bites from his plate with her, as if she weren’t eating the exact same thing as him. 

The last course is a selection of tiny cream puffs and he feeds her one by hand, staring at her lips all the while. She catches his thumb in her mouth just as he’s about to withdraw under the pretense of sucking a smudge of cream off of it. He takes in a quiet breath when she grazes the pad of his thumb with a blunt fang before releasing it.

The night ends with Lucifer’s hands on her bare back, gasping “Please—please—” between deep, frantic kisses on her doorstep. It takes a monumental act of willpower to disentangle herself from him and step away, but it’s worth it for the surge of pride she gets from seeing him disheveled and pouting as she sweetly wishes him goodnight and closes the door in his face.

The next date is his turn so he takes his revenge by signing them up for tango lessons. Lucifer Morningstar, of course, does not need tango lessons. But Chloe is forced to stumble through with nothing but the guidance of the impassioned but hard to understand Argentinian instructor and half-remembered childhood dance lessons for aid. That would have been difficult enough if she also didn’t have to spend the entire class pressed nearly toe to tip against Lucifer, whose too-close hold the Argentinian keeps trying to correct.

“This isn’t a beginner-level class, is it?” She pants after ten minutes of tripping over her own feet, Lucifer’s and, seemingly, the floor’s.

“Well, of course not, Detective!” Lucifer exclaims, walking her backwards across the ballroom. “That would be terribly tedious. When I signed up I told them the truth: that I am an excellent tango dancer.” He tilts her into a dip so low his knee almost touches the floor. Chloe clings to his shoulder for dear life, her undead heart fluttering wildly. He pulls her back up in a flash and plasters her against him again. Her fingers slide through the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

“Yeah,” she says breathlessly, eyes darting to his neck, a mere breath away. She thinks he might kiss her, but the Argentinian starts in on something about lifts and the rest of the class is Lucifer effortlessly hoisting Chloe in the air in various orientations while she shrieks in terror and delight, flailing inelegantly. The other people in the class don’t seem to appreciate how much fun they’re having as the two of them giggle and Lucifer executes increasingly non-standard dance maneuvers.

That date ends with him waving jovially at her from the driver’s seat of his Corvette, not even bothering to walk her to her door, and it’s Chloe’s turn to pout in disappointment.

So, it becomes something of a competition to see who can leave the other the most frustrated at the end of the date. Chloe likes that it gives her the opportunity to continue to test herself, and Lucifer is quite transparently working to get her to cave and decide that she’s ready to have sex again.

There’s the moonlit beach date to which both of them wear frankly daytime-inappropriate bathing suits. The Halloween date to one of those haunted houses that’s so intense you have to sign a special waiver, resulting in the two of them clinging to each other in a way that doesn’t even seem feigned on Lucifer’s part. The date to a bordering-on-softcore French vampire film. And, of course, the date in Lucifer’s penthouse that’s a near-identical reproduction of the night of their first almost-kiss, except that the covers of his bed are invitingly turned down and his bedroom is lit enticingly with candles.

She has basically no choice but to turn him down that time. 

This game culminates, curiously enough, with Charlie’s first birthday party. Lucifer whines and complains and protests that he can think of nothing less appealing than spending hours congratulating a tiny, chubby half-breed who has no idea what’s going on for the unimpressive achievement of living for a year. Chloe counters that a major part of being in a relationship is accompanying your partner to events that you don’t want to attend, and Lucifer grumbles but submits.

“Here’s something to keep your mind occupied if you get bored,” Chloe says offhandedly as they walk up the sidewalk towards Linda’s house in the fading twilight, fingers laced together, Lucifer carrying a large, brightly wrapped gift under one arm. “I’m not wearing underwear.”

He turns his head to her sharply, eyes drilling into her modest, airy, pleated skirt as if he could see through it via sheer force of will.

He opens his mouth to say something just as Linda swings open the front door and exclaims, “Lucifer! Chloe! I’m so glad you could make it!” Lucifer instead turns to smile politely at his therapist while she embraces Chloe.

Lucifer holds out the present defensively to try to preclude any further hugging. “This is a gift for my nephew, who I’m certain will not appreciate it.”

“Why, thank you, Lucifer. That’s very sweet,” Linda says, rolling her eyes knowingly at Chloe.

* * *

The child’s birthday party is an absolute snooze fest, as far as parties go. Lucifer sits at the end of the couch eating hors d'oeuvres and downing glass after glass of wine while Chloe and Linda make smalltalk with other parents from Charlie’s daycare. He wishes Maze were here to inject at least the _slightest _bit of excitement into the proceedings, but apparently she is engaged in what she terms a “blood feud” with a mother in attendance named Karen (Linda clarifies that in practical terms, this means Maze is the subject of a restraining order) and refused to come.

He amuses himself by fantasizing about kneeling in front of Chloe, sticking his head up her flirty green skirt, and eating her out in front of everyone.

After a few minutes, Chloe says “Linda, I have to ask. What are you making in the kitchen? It smells fantastic.”

Linda’s brows contract in confusion. “I’m not making anything, all of this was catered. Amenadiel!” She calls, leaning back over the ouch. “Do you have anything in the oven?”

“No,” he replies from somewhere down the hall. “Just finishing getting Charlie dressed.”

A few moments later, Amenadiel strolls into the living room with Charlie in his arms and Lucifer watches Chloe’s whole demeanor change. Her lips part and her eyes darken and her arm winds tightly around his bicep.

“Ohhh, wow, I forgot you weren’t the only angel in town,” she purrs quietly. Her eyes track Amenadiel like a hungry predator as he puts Charlie down in the playpen where a handful of other babies gurgle and chew on toys, then sits down in a nearby chair. Her fingers unconsciously knead his arm like a pleased cat and she runs her free hand down her thigh.

“Oh, no, no, no, absolutely not!” Lucifer says. “Detective, that’s my _brother_!”

“Mmhmm, it sure is,” she responds absently, giving his arm one last squeeze before standing and relocating to a chair next to Amenadiel’s.

“Good to see you, Chloe,” Amenadiel says warmly. “Linda told me about your...condition. That must be difficult.”

“Oh, it’s not all bad,” she replies, leaning closer to him and inhaling deeply.

“Good to hear! And how is it going with my brother?”

“Always a struggle.”

Lucifer clears his throat pointedly from the couch, fist white-knuckled around the stem of his wine glass, a familiar constricting sensation he identifies as jealousy tightening in his chest.

“You’re telling me!” Amenadiel laughs, and she joins in.

Chloe’s back is mostly turned to him so he can’t see the expression on her face but he pictures her eyes, sparkling with affection the way they do when he makes her laugh, imagines her leaning in seductively, imagines her moaning as her teeth pierce the flesh of his brother’s neck—”

He stands abruptly and walks over to them. The conversation Linda was having with a tedious woman named Teri peters out. Chloe and Amenadiel look up at him with near identical expressions of mischievous glee. Lucifer realizes quite suddenly he’s been played.

Nonetheless, he summarily dumps his nearly-full glass of wine on Amenadiel’s head and draws Chloe to her feet with his other hand.

“Luci!” Amenadiel sputters. “What was that for?”

Lucifer ignores him. “Detective, may I speak with you for a moment in private?”

He tows her into the bathroom and closes and locks the door behind them, then immediately presses her against it, kissing her fervently. When they part at last, they’re both breathing heavily.

“You’re mine?” His voice comes out ragged.

She nods vigorously, panting. “Yes.”

“_Only_ mine?”

“_Yes_.”

He kneels before her, feeling vaguely like a knight pledging his fealty to a queen. He slides both hands up her calves and under the hem of her skirt, slowly edging higher and higher.

“_Please_, may I?” 

She takes a deep breath and looks into the middle distance for a moment. _Consulting with the schoolmarm_, he thinks. Finally she looks back down at him and nods again, her lovely face breaking into a shy smile.

“Yes.”

_Finally_, he thinks, then dives under her skirt, kissing his way up her cool thighs and discovering with delight that she wasn’t lying about her undergarment situation.

* * *

“So you said something about getting into keto?” Linda prompts Teri.

“Oh yeah, it’s great. I’ve lost five pounds already. But, you know, I’ve made some modifications to make it work for me. For example, I love pasta, so I still have that a couple times a week. And I can’t stand that whole wheat stuff—it’s so heavy! So I—”

There’s a loud thump from the direction of the room that Chloe and Lucifer disappeared into minutes ago.

“So I still eat normal pasta, and I really like—”

“_Oh! Lucifer!_” That was definitely Chloe’s voice. Linda winces. Several of her guests turn to stare at the bathroom door in shock. She knew letting word of this party slip to the other daycare moms was a mistake.

Dull Teri finally catches on and glances over shoulder at the bathroom door as well. “What’s going on in there?”

Linda shrugs, forcing a smile. “Lover’s quarrel, maybe?”

_“Ohhh, don’t stop! Right there!”_

Teri raises her eyebrows. “I’ve never had a quarrel that sounded anything like that.”

From the bathroom Linda hears a very familiar low, muffled chuckle. 

“Okay!” She claps her hands, standing up. “Time for the cake! Let’s all go into the kitchen now!”

They’ve lit the candles, sung the song, “helped” Charlie blow out the candles, and cut the cake by the time Chloe and Lucifer reappear. Chloe looks vaguely dazed. Lucifer’s hair is in total disarray and he’s wearing the biggest shit-eating grin imaginable.

Amenadiel, still slightly wine-stained, gives Lucifer a flat look.

“Oh, did we miss Charlie blowing out the candles?” Chloe asks, disappointed. “I hope you took pictures.”

“Yes, yes, be sure to post them on a social media platform of your choice,” Lucifer says impatiently. “Unfortunately, we really must be going. Quite an urgent matter...arose.”

Chloe elbows him in the side and he does a poor job of stifling a self-satisfied smirk.

“Really? Are you sure you can’t stay for coffee?” Linda asks halfheartedly.

“No, no, no, we must be off. Lovely party, thank you ever so much, goodbye.” Lucifer steers Chloe towards the door.

She gives Linda and Amenadiel an apologetic smile over her shoulder. “Let me know if Charlie doesn’t like his gift—” Lucifer opens the front door and drags her through it. “I still have the receipt!” She calls, voice growing more distant until the door slams behind them.

“Who _were_ those people?” Teri asks Karen under her breath.

* * *

There was a time, a time not so long ago, when coming three times in quick succession while pressed against a bathroom door with the Devil’s face buried between her thighs would have been sexual gratification enough for a night. Grounds to go to bed early and pass out for a blissful night’s sleep.

Now, it’s barely enough to whet her appetite.

They say little on the drive from Linda’s house to Lux, both vibrating with tension, shooting each other heated glances every few moments. Chloe hadn’t quite realized how much their teasing game had affected her, but now she’s almost feral with it. Aching with emptiness that only he can fill, in more ways than one. 

Lucifer’s fingers are tapping out a rapid rhythm on the steering wheel and whenever there’s a hint of open road, he accelerates like he’s trying to win a drag race, the Corvette purring obligingly. Chloe tracks his pulse by watching the subtle throb of his jugular and it’s quickened from its normal slow drumbeat to a nimble syncopated skip. 

They’re still five minutes or so away when Chloe can’t resist any longer and she puts one hand on his thigh. His hands jerk on the wheel and the car swerves abruptly before he brings it back under control. She slides her hand up slowly and cups him where he’s straining against his slacks, burning with heat through the fine wool.

He squirms against her hand but she just simply holds him possessively.

“Detective,” he breathes, pleading.

“Eyes on the road, Lucifer,” she says implacably, giving him a chastising squeeze.

He lays into the accelerator and darts into a vanishingly small gap between two cars, weaving aggressively through traffic.

He doesn’t “park” the car so much as he uses the handbrake to drift sideways to a stop in Lux’s driveway, tires shrieking against the pavement, forcing his valet to scramble out of the way. He then leaps out of the top of the car without opening the door, sprints around to Chloe’s side, and opens her door with a bow, offering his hand.

Chloe, windswept and giddy, takes it.

As soon as the elevator doors close, Chloe’s wrapped around him, fingers buried in his hair, sucking his tongue like there’s no tomorrow. By the time the doors open again, her blouse is off and her bra pulled down under her breasts, Lucifer’s jacket is on the floor, his belt is undone and all of the buttons formerly attached to his shirt are scattered about like confetti.

“We’re going to—do it—in a bed—this time.” Chloe declares between kisses.

Lucifer hums in agreement around a mouthful of breast. He carries her into his bedroom blindly, his face buried in her chest, with a facility borne of extensive practice. They fall together onto the bed, grappling playfully for a few moments before Chloe pins him, holding his wrists against the bed and grinding her bare pussy against his erection, so wet she can feel it soaking through his trousers.

“Stay,” she says, with a pointed look at his hands. He breathes through a feral, open-mouthed smile, wordlessly accepting her challenge. Then she scoots backwards, hands trailing down his bare chest, until she arrives at his waistband. She pops open the button and then slowly drags down the zipper, liberating his erection, which springs to attention, enjoying its newfound freedom.

She didn’t have much opportunity to appreciate it last time, but it’s as gorgeous as she thinks a cock is capable of being. Smooth and straight and absolutely _throbbing_ with blood. She wonders if she could taste it pulsing just underneath the skin. She grips it, thick and burning hot, sliding his foreskin back and wrapping her lips around the head. She can feel his heartbeat against her tongue, pounding desperately. She licks the leaking tip and then takes more of it into her mouth, hollowing her cheeks as she pulls back slowly.

Lucifer’s sides are heaving as he gulps air, his arms akimbo, hands fisted in the sheets, hooded black eyes watching her unblinkingly.

She sets a rhythm, bobbing up and down, stretching to take more and more of him, stroking what she can’t take with her hand and occasionally letting it stray down to massage his unremarkable balls. Lucifer begins to babble—little bits and pieces of praise and encouragement, increasingly incoherent, dissolving into wordless exclamations. What finally does him in is Chloe losing her tenuous control and letting her fangs descend. She growls as they scrape against him ever-so-lightly, and then his hips are jerking helplessly and he’s coming hard into her mouth. She revels in the taste mixed with the slightest hint of his blood, swallowing it down.

She licks the scratches she left on him soothingly as he comes down, chest heaving. 

“You can stay hard, can’t you?” She asks curiously, stroking him gently.

“For you, Detective, anything,” he vows.

“Good,” she says, wiggling out of her skirt and dragging his trousers the rest of the way off, until they’re both nude. He watches her in happy disbelief as she climbs onto him, stretching out bodily against him, skin-to-skin, _finally_. His hands come up to trace the elegant curve of her spine, the swell of her hip, the line of her throat. She drags her fingers across the smooth ridges and valleys of his muscles, runs her lips along his stubble, breathing in the heady aroma of his neck. 

His unflagging erection presses between her legs, and she undulates against it, teasing.

“You gonna fuck me or what, Mr. Morningstar?”

* * *

He, as ever, rises to her challenge, holding her hips in place and sliding home. She lets out a deep exhalation like the breath has been punched out of her. Lucifer worries for a moment that he’s been a bit too forceful but then she looks up at him, eyes burning, and raises an eyebrow as if to say, “Well?”

He sets a brutal pace, thrusting up into her while she rides him, chest-to-chest, knees planted on either side of him, giving as good as she gets. She nips and sucks and bites at his neck all the while, teeth not breaking the skin, but getting close, getting oh-so-close.

He watches, mesmerized, as her breasts bounce, caught between them. The bullet necklace that’s never been absent from her neck since he returned from Hell dangles against his chest.

“You’re so good,” she moans, tightening around him. He thrusts hard through her clenching, velvety wetness.

“Why, thank you very much, my dear,” he replies with his customary roguish elan.

“No,” she says forcefully, and when she leans back to look him in the eyes, he’s startled to find tears in hers. “You’re a good man. I love you so much. Thank you for waiting for me.”

His heart performs the same series of alarming acrobatic maneuvers it does every time she says it.

“I—” His voice breaks and he has to work to swallow a lump in his throat before he can continue. “It was my genuine pleasure, Chloe.”

His movements gentle, sliding into her smoothly and slowing as he withdraws, her muscles gripping him as if she’s trying to hold him inside her. The frantic pleasure they were chasing mellows into something low and stirring that builds like rolling thunder in the distance.

He grinds her hips against his, working her up and down on his cock, while she rolls against him faster and faster, their steady, intoxicating rhythm accelerating. The skin between them grows slick with sweat. She’s making a little whining sound in his ear on every downstroke that he decides feverishly is maybe the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. Her lips graze his neck, teasing and caressing, tracing the lines of tendons.

“Lucifer,” she moans. “Can I?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, tilting his head back for her, the motion of his hips unceasing.

And then her teeth are sinking deep into him, the sensation an exquisite tangle of pain and pleasure. She takes a deep pull and her entire body convulses, back arching, fingers gripping his hair, cunt spasming around him. She moans and takes another, then another, her cool flesh heating rapidly around him, the rippling motion of her inner muscles continuing. He feels like he’s unraveling, like she’s pulling his soul out of his body, and he offers it happily. 

“Chloe—” he chokes out. He jerks against her, thrusting into her almost violently, his entire body alight with sensation, and abruptly tumbles over the edge. He empties himself into her, and she takes everything he has to give.

When he comes back to himself, Chloe is lying limply on top of him, tucked under his chin, sweetly licking the sluggish trickle of blood from the puncture wounds on his neck. He’s still buried inside her.

“You’re my favorite,” she murmurs dreamily against his skin.

“Your favorite what?” 

“My favorite everything. Person. Partner. Smell. Snack food.”

He snorts a laugh. “I love you,” he says, smiling. And it doesn’t feel forced or inauthentic or like some reciprocal obligation, it’s just the simple truth.

She hums, pleased, and rolls off of him, snuggling into his side. He is, for the first time in eons, entirely content.

* * *

“What does it feel like for you?” She asks him, later.

He frowns thoughtfully. “It’s difficult to describe. It’s you’re taking ahold of me from the inside and pulling. Like you’re drawing me into you, but all over at once. A bit like a full-body cocksucking, to be honest.” Chloe makes a face, but he continues unfazed. “Except there’s a little while afterwards when I can still feel the piece of myself that’s inside of you, changing shape. That’s my divinity, I suppose.”

“Will you run out of it if I keep drinking it?”

“What, my divinity?” Lucifer laughs. “No, unfortunately I have a near-inexhaustible supply. My Father wasn’t exactly stingy with it, back in the day. I needed to have enough for all my”—he grimaces like he has a bad taste in his mouth—”_assignments_.”

He rolls his shoulders lazily and his wings unfurl, and Chloe realizes that in all the drama and romance and lust she’d managed to forget who and what he _truly is_. The way he smells, the way he tastes, it all slots into place when taken together with the sight of the pulsing, living glow of his snowy feathers.

The wing above her lowers and buffets her gently, sliding against her skin in a velvety-soft full-body caress as he watches her sleepily, cheek resting on his folded arms. She raises a wondering hand and tentatively strokes the downy underside of it. The wing—_Lucifer_—presses into her touch. Just, she supposes, like he does when she touches him anywhere else.

She marvels at the two of them—a mismatched pair if ever there was one. A creature of pure light and another consigned to eternal darkness. And yet they fit together like pieces of a puzzle, the same way they did when she was just a disillusioned cop and he was just a delusional night club owner.

“Do you think we’ll ever get bored of each other?” She wonders.

He pulls a face. “Yeah, probably. That’s why we’ll have to really work to keep each other guessing.” 

He grins and pounces on her, pinning her arms with his wings and tickling her sides as she shrieks with delight. 

The vampire and the son of God laugh and delight in each other until the sunrise, and until every sunrise thereafter.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Starry Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22634758) by [MoanDiary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary)
  * [Double-Edged](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22917448) by [MoanDiary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary)
  * [write my name in crimson red](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22926679) by [redledgers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redledgers/pseuds/redledgers)
  * [Give Me Your Starlight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22927138) by [violent_ends](https://archiveofourown.org/users/violent_ends/pseuds/violent_ends)
  * [Meet Me in the Woods Tonight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27314590) by [MoanDiary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary)


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